"Be ye need aid, kind sire?"

The reedy voice above him almost made him jump out of his skin and into the Abyss. He sat up, startled, then sank back into the ground with a groan as the purple sky spun violently above, his stomach churning.

The owner of the voice was man-like, short and stout and as brown as newly turned earth. His skin was gnarled and as tough as bark. Large luminous brown eyes regarded him with concern under a shock of root-like hair. 'Only a mandrake', the druid sighed in relief, and raised himself up, slowly this time. He had not anticipated this much drain on his powers. His right hand hurt where the energies he had expended on the Stone collapsed from its destruction.

"I will be alright in a little while, friend mandrake," said the scarred man. It felt strange speaking the Common Tongue again, after several years. "My name is Arlan. There is a boy with me. He is ill and is in need of Healing."

He made as if to rise, but the mandrake held him down gently.

"And I be called Marsh. Stay and save yer strength, Sir Arlan. If this boy be ill as ye say, he be not far astray."

With that, the mandrake scampered downhill, but no sooner had he turned his back when the druid picked himself up on wobbly legs and staggered after the squat form. He had taken only a few cautious steps when he heard Marsh exclaim, "He be dead!"

Swearing,  Arlan frantically slid down the hill, where the boy lay beside a bubbling stream amidst the crimson zilias, the mandrake at his side. His heart lurched at the corpse-white face, but his hands were steady as he laid them an inch above the boy's chest, blue light pulsing.

After several tense seconds, the child gasped for breath, color slowly returning to his cheeks as his breathing steadied. Druid and mandrake sagged in relief.

"He lives—but barely," said Arlan, wiping the sweat from his face with a shaking hand, as much from fatigue as from the scare the mandrake had given him. If the boy died—with effort he pushed the dire thought away. "His wound has reopened, and I have but temporarily stopped the bleeding. Even so, he has injuries that I cannot even begin to describe. I am no Healer, friend Marsh. Perchance you know of one?"

Mandrakes were solitary creatures, living in hovels made of earth and mud. They could be found almost anywhere in Ervon. But if this was mandrake territory, then the Stone had taken them  somewhere south of the continent of Mercia, in the forested hills and swamps of Keltiad, a good three hundred leagues from Druidia. He cursed himself for a bumbling fool, then thought better of it. They were lucky they had even arrived in one piece.

Marsh cocked his head to one side, squinting at the boy. All mandrakes had the inner Eye. He was probably bothered by the boy's strange aura, a sickly green color that flickered weakly. Green was unheard of in Ervon. But the mandrake gathered himself and replied, "There be a Healer in Keltiad, near the edge of the Forest of Sorrows, 'bout a half league from here. I be taking ye to him. Wait but a moment!"

Without another word, the mandrake ran up the hill from whence he came.

Arlan stared at the boy's pale face in anguish. "Forgive me, Rhyshannon," he whispered, "but I cannot let you perish, not when so much is at stake. If I could take your pain, I would."

But the boy gave no sign that he had heard.

Marsh was back shortly, a thick brown robe woven from dangya roots slung over one shoulder.

"The lad be barely dressed for the coming night," puffed the mandrake, indicating the boy's hospital gown with some degree of curiosity. "And 'tis a cold spring this year's turning. Mayhap this will give him comfort."

Arlan thanked him for the robe, and together they wrapped it snugly around the boy's slight frame. Marsh offered to carry the boy, and he lifted him in his gnarled arms as if he was a fragile thing. The druid had forgotten about the strength of mandrakes—twice that of a strong human, until Marsh commented that the child weighed almost next to nothing.

They headed on their way, setting an urgent pace south toward Keltiad's rainforest. It would be night by the time they arrive at the Healer's hut. Already a distant silver glow lined the horizon where the Forest lay.

"Such strange clothing ye be wearing," said the mandrake, noting Arlan's blue pullover shirt, jeans and loafers. "But I have seen stranger things this day, such as two men falling from the sky and landing on their faces." His wide mouth broke into a grin.

Arlan sighed at his guide's indirect query. He couldn't blame the mandrake for being curious.

"I wish I could enlighten you, friend Marsh, but the Conclave has sworn me to secrecy on this task, and I fear for your safety. The less you know cannot hurt you. Suffice it to say that along the way we were met by great evil, and the boy—Jared—was attacked by a Myrdraath."

Marsh gasped, almost dropping the boy. "A Myrdraath!" He shivered as if from the cold, and looked at the bundled form in pity.

The druid—for now the mandrake knew that the stranger was far from ordinary—the druid's face was grim, as if the whole weight of the world rested upon his shoulders.

"Have no fear, Arlan of the Conclave. What I have seen this day will never leave old Marsh's mouth. For a hundred generations the mandrake race did serve the druids in their cause, and not once have they reneged on their service, nor regretted the outcome. It be an honor to aid ye in yer need."

Moved, Arlan met the mandrake's eyes gratefully and bowed in acquiescence, but not before Marsh saw the flash of grief in those silver eyes, quickly masked.

Marsh gave a slight shake of his blocky head. Humans are strange creatures, and druids ten times worse, he thought. Mandrakes never did understood them completely, but if called they would serve the Conclave without question, for like the druids they revered the earth and all that live within it.

The rest of the trek was made in companionable silence. All of a sudden it was night, and Arlan stared in awe as Ervon's giant moon rose, filling the horizon with silver light. Trees and shrubs glowed with their own colors like a salute to the coming of night. And to his inner Eye, the land pulsed with Power, waves of blue-violet-silver rising and ebbing like a huge living heart, one with the beating of his own.

From time to time, the druid checked on the boy, and thrice laid his glowing hand upon the lad. By the time they reached the forest's edge, Arlan was nearly at the end of his strength, but not once did the mandrake hear him complain, or stop to take a breath.

"'Tis not far, Sir Arlan, just yonder those copse of trees," Marsh pointed.

They entered the Forest of Sorrows, centuries-old trees towering above them. The shimmering boughs brought a spring to Arlan's tired steps.

Then they emerged into a small clearing, surrounded by twelve sylvan trees, their slender silver branches bending over the mandrake Healer's hut protectively. Sentinel trees, Arlan thought in wonder as he felt a tingling sensation on his skin as he crossed the barrier. The hut itself was made from hardened mud and intertwined vines. Small spring flowers grew among the vines, glowing with their own light. And, as if he had sensed their coming, beneath the equally small door stood the Healer himself, shorter than Marsh and much older, regarding them with luminous, ancient eyes.  

A/N:  Images created by @Sunnyrizz  - Thanks so much!! ♡